


on the sofa

by collywobblesfirth



Category: Bridget Jones (Movies), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: ...and that's literally it, Blow Jobs, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collywobblesfirth/pseuds/collywobblesfirth
Summary: He doesn’t realise he’s dozed off until there’s a thump elsewhere in the room that startles him, his eyes blinking back open. He absently rubs at the back of his neck, bracing himself for the inevitable struggle that will be standing back up, when a soft zip reaches his ears from immediately in front of him.It’s only then that he’s properly roused from his dozing as he’s met with the sight of Bridget, freshly emerged from the shower, kneeling on the carpet between his splayed legs.





	on the sofa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



> Titles are hard, okay! I... look, I don't write smut often, so I have zero idea where this came from. I place the blame squarely on Carly's shoulders. She puts all these awful (wonderful) ideas in my head and I am forced (happily encouraged) to do something with them, in an effort to populate this fandom and... I dunno... just generally deal with Very Not Safe For Work Feelings for one Mr Colin Andrew Firth.
> 
> Written mostly on my phone in between music rehearsals and on public transport, so please forgive any errors.

He lets himself in, calling out, “Bridget?”

The distant sound of an upstairs shower is the only response Mark gets. He deflates a little more, the absolute disaster of a day that he’s just had catching up with him. Heaving a sigh, he drops his briefcase unceremoniously by the door, tossing his keys in the bowl that’s filled with Bridget’s own set and several pieces of individually-wrapped sweets (her last-minute-just-in-case-you-might-need-the-energy-for-the-Tube-ride supply). The door thunks closed as he makes his way in, tugging irritably at his necktie and shrugging off his coat.

He thinks he might pour himself a bit of scotch, or perhaps help himself to one of the chocolate trays in the fridge, but all he manages to do is collapse onto the living room sofa with with a  _ fwumph _ , knees apart, slouching back lazily. His head lolls back, eyes drifting shut, and he takes his glasses off, tucking them safely away into his shirt pocket.

Mark wills himself to relax, now that he’s home, cozy and safe from idiots blathering about in his face and mountains of paperwork slowly drowning him at a desk. He pulls his tie off the rest of the way and rolls it up, blindly placing it next to him on the sofa. His hand drapes across his forehead, sighing deeply, wishing Bridget would finish her shower so he could see a friendly face.

He doesn’t realise he’s dozed off until there’s a  _ thump  _ elsewhere in the room that startles him, his eyes blinking back open. He sees quadruple, then double the ceiling lights, blurry and drifting in and out of focus, until he blinks a little harder and his eyes have adjusted. He shifts in his place a little, suddenly aware of a twinge in his neck from the awkward position he’d been resting in. He absently rubs at the back of his neck, bracing himself for the inevitable struggle that will be standing back up, when a soft  _ zip  _ reaches his ears from immediately in front of him.

It’s only then that he’s properly roused from his dozing as he’s met with the sight of Bridget, freshly emerged from the shower, kneeling on the carpet between his splayed legs.

She’s clad in just a towel, cinched under her arms; her blonde hair is damp and loose, and his nose is greeted with the fragrance of her strawberry-scented conditioner. There’s a glint in her eye as she finishes pulling down the zip at the front of his trousers, a smile tugging up the corners of her mouth.

His throat, already dry, rasps almost inaudibly as all noises die in his mouth.

Wordlessly, Bridget continues on her quest, her demure smile unfaltering as she pulls down the waistband of his boxers. He wonders briefly if he’s still asleep, if he’s hallucinating the vision of his lovely towel-clad wife in front of him, her shoulders deliciously bare and framing her face as she noses teasingly at the soft swell of his stomach. Her hands paw busily at the front of his trousers, navy fabric indecorously spread open, the lightly striped material of his boxers poking out as the heat pools in his groin.

His vision swims hazily, the last remnants of his sleepiness replaced by clouds of lust. He lifts a hand, running his fingers through her hair and tucking the strands behind her ear. His other hand reaches forward, thumb brushing against her cheek as their eyes meet. Her smile turns devilish, and he forgets to breathe momentarily, his hands stilling against her face.

She takes advantage of his temporary lapse in movement, and deftly pulls his boxers down the rest of the way.

His cock springs out, jutting obscenely between them. He opens his mouth, her name on the tip of his tongue, when her own darts out to lick a wet stripe along the length of him, followed by a chaste kiss to the tip. He growls, long fingers gripping the sides of her head, resting hot hands in the cool dampness of her hair. She grasps him in one hand, gently dragging her parted lips across the head, ghosting kisses around and along his cock.

Mark watches, mouth slightly agape, his breathing growing more laboured as his eyes rake over and along her exposed skin, tracing the pout of her lips as she presses her delicate mouth to him. Her tongue flicks out once, twice, three times against him, as the hand wrapped around him drifts languidly back and forth. His hands clench in her hair, pressing in, careful not to pull too hard, as he lets out a ragged breath.

She mouths over the head of him, tongue swirling impossibly hot; then she pulls back, leaning back on her haunches. Mark absolutely  _ does not _  whine in protest, but it’s a near thing. Bridget smiles almost apologetically, trailing her hands up his clothed thighs, and as she hitches up the hem of his shirt he gets the hint, tugging his trousers and boxers down, letting them bunch up just above his knees.

Their eyes meet again once the task is complete, and Bridget hums appreciatively at the sight of him, exposed about the waist and upper legs, erection indecently on display.

Mark rests his hands on top of hers as she leans forward again, fingers curling as her mouth meets with the head of his cock. He groans, long and loud, as Bridget takes him deeper. Their fingers interlock on either side of her head, her elbows pressing tightly about his knees, keeping her balance steady as she bobs her head slowly up and down. Every slick slide back down elicits a soft  _ Ah _  from Mark, his hands gripping more tightly around hers.

Boldly, she swallows him down until he’s nudging the back of her throat, and she holds firm, eyes peering up at him shamelessly through her lashes. He holds her gaze for all of a second before his eyes roll involuntarily back in his head, the hot sensation of being nearly fully sheathed overwhelming him. A guttural moan rasps low in his throat, then she pulls back off him slowly, lips pressed tightly around him until there’s a wet  _ pop _ . He re-opens his eyes and tugs their hands up toward him, and she takes the hint, rising up from her kneeling position to straddle him.

He brings his legs together as she raises up, her knees bracketing his thighs; she hovers above him, the towel brushing teasingly at his oversensitive cock. Bridget watches his eyes rove hungrily down her neck, then back up along her mouth, meeting her eyes with an unreserved gaze of pure lust. There’s a brief eternity where Mark can see nothing but intense adoration in deep blues, and Bridget can see pupils blown wide, ringed by dark brown; then their lips are crashing together, teeth clacking and tongues fighting. 

His hands grasp her bare calves and then slide slowly up, long fingers digging into the soft flesh. Bridget moans into his mouth as he cups her arse firmly, her hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. He bites none too gently on her bottom lip, dragging his teeth in a slow graze, in tandem with the pull of his hands on her bottom, tugging her closer. His erection bumps teasingly between her legs, where she’s exposed and deliciously wet under the towel, and she lets out a shaky breath against his lips, pressing their foreheads together.

Her eyes are lidded and heavy, boring into Mark’s gaze, their breaths mingling in the mere inch of space between their mouths. His hands curve reverently in circles on her arse, his breath hitching as the tip of Bridget’s tongue darts out to wet her lips.

Grinning wickedly, she tugs at the knot in her towel, and with an air of grace that has Mark inhaling sharply, removes it from her person and tosses it behind her. His mouth goes slack, eyes raking up and down greedily at the wonderful sight of the now-naked Bridget in his lap. A faint blush creeps down her cheeks and neck as he meets her eyes again, and he urges her a little closer, burying his nose in her neck, kissing wetly at the side of her throat. She closes her eyes, tilting her head back, welcoming his sloppy trail of pecks and bites as he makes his way around her throat and underneath her chin.

His hands and fingers knead into her, and Bridget can feel his hips jerking up almost imperceptibly, seeking heat; she slides her hands up from where they’re resting on his shoulders to grasp his face, and she forces him back. He grunts in protest. She shushes him, and without breaking his gaze, reaches down with one hand to grasp at his erection, reveling in the way Mark’s breath has grown erratic. She tugs and strokes gently, watching with satisfaction as his jaw twitches in response.

Bridget pauses, hand firm around the base of his cock. He’s about to say something - probably something sappy, or filthy, or a wonderful combination of both - but she holds him still in her hand, and lowers herself onto him, lower lip caught between her teeth as she bites back a moan.

He groans, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed with pleasure.

She lets out a breathy  _ Fuck  _ when she’s fully seated, knees pressed either side of his torso, her bare skin flush against the firm fabric of his shirt. Her hands come up to grab at his shirt buttons, fumbling them apart, nails scrabbling at his bared chest. His hands slide up to grasp her lower back, fingers splayed wide; he shifts in his spot, and she gasps out loud as the motion drives him a little deeper.

He’s breathing hard, lips parted, looking utterly wrecked, and it’s Bridget who moves in first, crushing her lips to his, eyes fluttering closed. She wraps her arms around his neck, rolling her hips slowly, and he grazes his teeth against her lips, making ragged  _ Mmph  _ sounds of pleasure. He braces his feet against the carpet and thrusts up, matching the rhythm of her rolling hips. One of her hands rakes through his hair, angling his head back to deepen the kiss, the pace of their thrusts building.

“Mark,” she pants, after several hazy minutes pass, and the ache in her thighs starts to make itself known.

“Bridget,” he mutters in response, and grabs her hips, mouth closing on a hardened nipple as he thrusts harder into her.

She lets out a strangled moan, hands scrabbling for purchase in his hair and at his nape. “Mark - please!”

He presses a thumb into her most sensitive spot, his tongue lapping and sucking across her breast, hips canting raggedly. She cries out, nipping at his earlobe. “Fuck, fuck, fucking  _ fuck _ ,” she hisses, a whisper in his ear, the breathy chant pushing him closer to the edge. Her breath skates hotly across his ear as she curses, gasping obscenities garbled with his name as she finally comes.

He pulls back to watch her face as pleasure overwhelms her. The image of her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, groaning his name, sends him over the edge; he comes too with a shout, stilling inside her, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

Bridget recovers first, peppering kisses along his cheek and jaw, down along his throat, to the hollow at the base of his neck. She remains on his lap, pushing her hands under the fabric of his shirt, kneading at his shoulders soothingly. She plants one more kiss on the tip of his nose, her head coming to rest beside his own, draping herself like a blanket atop him.

“Shit day at work?” she murmurs into his ear.

He answers, “Hello to you, too,” and she feels rather than sees the grin that spreads across his face.

“You looked absolutely knackered,” Bridget says, hands still rubbing soothingly along his shoulders and back. “Thought you’d need some help, ah, winding down.”

He laughs, a low rumble. “Quite.”

She smiles into his neck. “Did it work?”

He hums noncommittally, but she can still feel his grin.

She sits back, ignoring the warm mess of fluids pooling where their bodies are still flush together. “I’ll take that gorgeous orgasm you just had as a resounding yes, Mr Darcy,” she teases, running a hand through his hair, the other cupping his cheek affectionately.

“Quite,” he says again, leaning into her touch. His eyes open then, warm and bright and content.

Bridget giggles. “What do you say to my fetching a warm flannel to clean us up, followed by a nice proper bath and some dinner?”

Mark pretends to think it over. “Do I have to brave said bath alone, or will you join me?”

She barks out a laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

“When it comes to you, darling Bridget,” he sighs, “I’m afraid there’s no such thing as ‘enough’.”


End file.
